


There are windchimes and the smell of lemons

by Blanquette



Category: Monsta X (Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Home, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, One Shot, Plants, Shapeshifting, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Soft Min Yoongi | Suga, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 23:58:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16505243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blanquette/pseuds/Blanquette
Summary: It's raining, when Kihyun finds something small and dying.





	There are windchimes and the smell of lemons

**1.**

Water, and the darkness, heavy and overwhelming. Something sticky on his fur, and the pain that followed him through the shift. Yoongi folds a little more on himself, pushing against the wall as if he could melt within, disappear completely. He doesn’t need to, the night and the rain hiding him well enough, a dark spot against darker shadows. Every breath is carved out of him with too sharp a knife, every heartbeat pounding too strong against brittle bones. Maybe this is it, then, the end; and he thought he would have felt greater sorrow when it came.

 

**2.**

At first, he’s sure that he’s too late, that the little cat is already dead. But he trusts what he felt, what the shadows told him, and so he perseveres, leaving the shelter of the big umbrella he abandons open on the sidewalk as he crouches, trying to wriggle his arm behind the dumpster. He feels it then, hand closing on wet fur and a cold body, and something else, something barely there, thrumming against his skin. Kihyun stills for a beat, and as he brings the animal out of the darkness he knows, peering into its face, into dark eyes struggling to stay open, he’s sure of it. They are too strangely human in such a face.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay.”

The cat gives up then, eyes closing as his body goes limp in Kihyun’s hands. So Kihyun does the only think he can, he puts the animal that isn’t really one inside his clothes, against his bare skin, suppressing a shiver, and he hopes this will be enough until he gets home.

The big umbrella shelters them both from the rain as Kihyun rushes through empty streets, and the night is kind to him, always has been; the moon shines bright, lightning the way, and when he reaches the only true haven he knows, the cat is still there, still alive, faintly struggling against his skin.

 

**3.**

A heartbeat, stronger than his own, warm skin chasing away the cold treading on his limbs, and something else, too, something dark, an earthy smell like the forest after rain. Yoongi lets himself drift, but the shadows he’s chasing seem inviting, almost warm, and when he finally reaches them, his eyes open onto light.

He’s resting in a nest of blankets upon the seat of an old armchair, smelling like dust and something reminding him faintly of what he felt, when he was dying. He narrows his eyes into slits, not wanting whomever might be here to know he awakened before having a chance to weigh his surroundings. The room seems empty, though, only silence to greet him back to life. Yoongi raises his head slightly, and looks.

A small square room, wooden floor covered by a linty rug with intricate patterns, its colors faded to nothingness except for the burgundy lining of its extremities. Tall shelves supporting rows and rows of dusty books, and a sunken couch pushed against the far wall, where someone is asleep. Yoongi stares, even as the dim light doesn’t allow him to make out any features, but he knows, somehow, that this is the heartbeat he felt, the warmth that brought him back. He doesn’t move, gaze drifting from the stranger’s face to the plants at the foot of the sofa, on the shelves, or hanging from the ceiling in earthen pots, their leafy limbs spilling over.

It’s only when he tries to shift that he realizes he cannot move. His limbs feel stiff, painful as he forces his front legs to support his weight, and the drop to the floor seems like an impossible task. He falls back in his downy nest, and maybe he makes a noise, or maybe it is something else entirely, but the stranger at the far end of the room stirs, and as Yoongi freezes, he sits up, brushing dark hair out of darker eyes and stifling a yawn. The book resting on his chest falls to the ground with a dull thud and as he bends to pick it up, his stare falls to the tiny cat on the armchair, looking up at him with terrified eyes.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

His voice is soft, barely audible, yet Yoongi’s ears flatten against his skull and he tries to burrow as if simply hiding from the stranger could make him disappear. The man straightens up but doesn’t move from the couch, putting the book next to him and smoothing its cover almost lovingly.

“I must have fallen asleep while reading. Sorry, I was supposed to look after you. You seem to be doing alright though, yeah? A little stiff, maybe? If you can eat, I have something that might help. Maybe later. You should keep resting, first.”

Yoongi cocks his head, a little worried, because, who speaks to a cat like this? It hits him, then, that maybe the man knows, but then again, no one should, not even strange men smelling like woodlands and damp earth.

“You were pretty beat up. I hope it’s better, now. It should be, I’m good at what I do. I’m going to get up, and make some food for myself, and then for you, too. You should sleep again, in the meantime. The plants work better when no one’s looking.”

The stranger gets up, and his walk is slow as he stretches again on the way outside the room. He walks barefoot, Yoongi notices, and he makes a point of not getting anyway near the cat. Yoongi understands, then, that his careful behavior, his long-winded explanations, are all so as not to startle him, and something tight between his ribs gives way ever so slightly as he closes his eyes again, a wave of exhaustion pulling him under, amongst warm shadows that greet him back like an old friend.

 

**4.**

The almost-cat is asleep when Kihyun comes back into the room. A flick of his wrist, and the goldenseal and marigold resting softly on the animal retreat into the pots placed at the foot of the armchair, swaying softly to a wind of their own. Kihyun wonders, then, how to wake the cat without startling it, and resorts to sitting cross-legged on the rug, a few feet away from the nest of blankets, and putting the food he prepared in between them.

“Mr. Cat? Kitty cat. Kitty?”

It takes a while, but the cat finally cracks one of his strange eyes open and if he recoils a bit at seeing Kihyun this much closer, he doesn’t seem entirely scared, which Kihyun agrees will have to suffice for now.

“I made you some food. It’s just meat, and vegetables. I put some poppy in there, too. It helps with relieving pain, but it might make you a little groggy.”

The cat opens his other eye and just blinks at Kihyun, which he takes as an encouragement to continue.

“I will put the food next to you now, okay?”

There is no movement from the animal as Kihyun raises to his knees and leans over to put the bowl near the cat’s head, where he can reach it without straining too much. His gestures might be slow and measured, but he can still feel the wariness emanating from the animal, and he goes back to his place on the rug, shifting maybe a little farther.

“I will leave you to eat, I have things to attend to. No one else is in the house, so no one will bother you. You’re safe now, so just eat and get some rest.”

Kihyun leaves with a smile, bare feet hardly making any sound on the old rug. He closes the door of the small library behind him, nodding at the huge pot of ivy beside it as he makes his way to a small staircase at the end of the short corridor. The ivy stirs then, shivering under a breeze only it feels, and his tendrils reach out until they’re covering the entirety of the small door.

 

**5.**

It takes Yoongi a few days to build enough confidence to get out of the library. The man in the house is a soft enough presence that he gets used to him quickly enough, to his soft voice and kind eyes, a slight contrast to the sharpness of his features. Things happen that he’s not sure of, things that take the pain out of his body and put laughing shadows in his dreams, shadows smelling of rain and forests, shadows with a beating heart and warm hands.

And so he leaves the shelter of the library, and the corridor he steps into is dark, only lit by a small window at the far end, doing its best with the waning light of the late afternoon. His feline feet make no noise on the wooden floor, as he pads softly towards a small staircase that leads him down to a landing where three doors stand before him. Only one is ajar, though, light and noise spilling on the last step of the stairs. And so he pokes his head through, and stares.

It’s a kitchen, small and disorganized, not enough shelves for too much things, pots and pans and mugs and the plants, again, hanging from the ceiling, crawling at the foot of the wooden table in the center, spilling out of the sink and from the windowsill.

There’s the man, too, hunched over a steaming mug with a laughing stranger whose hair are as dark as his voice is deep. So Yoongi stares, unmoving, the words flying by too fast for his still fuzzy mind to catch anything. The room is maybe a little too warm, the smell of cinnamon maybe a little too strong, but Yoongi stays rooted in his spot until the stranger sees him and lets out a surprisingly high squeal.

“You got a cat!”

The man looks over his shoulder, surprise evident on his face, and breaks into a rare grin as he spots Yoongi, who’s very close to bolt towards the staircase as the stranger is looking like he might spring from his chair any second.

“I did, but he’s still skittish, and doesn’t like to be touched. So sit your ass back down, Changkyun.”

And Changkyun does, waving his hand in a strange greeting that has Yoongi staring some more until he feels too exposed and has to turn back, to the welcoming shelter of the library and the shadows that reside there.

 

**6.**

They both look at the little cat disappear, and once he’s gone, Kihyun turns back to his friend, blowing on his too-hot tea.

“He’s not a cat, though.”

“What? Did my eyes betray me again.”

Kihyun laughs, takes a sip and makes a grimace as the tea burns his tongue.

“Shapeshifter, you idiot.”

“Oh. Those are rare. Rarer, these days.”

Changkyun sobers up as Kihyun nods, staring into his mug as if it held every secret he ever wanted to know.

“How did you meet him?”

“I didn’t exactly meet him. I don’t know if he knows that I know. I haven’t seen him in his human form, yet.”

“What?”

“I found him behind a dumpster. Very hurt, I almost thought he wouldn’t make it. But then he did, and he’s been hanging out here ever since. He was running from something, I think. Or, you know, someone.”

They both fall silent, each to his own thoughts, and the implications behind Kihyun’s words. Changkyun is the first to break the lull, swaying his mug so as to watch the brown liquid swirl inside it.

“Well… Shapeshifters, you know. They’re not… It’s bad luck, you know, in a family. I wouldn’t be surprised, if, you know.”

“Could you be any vaguer?”

Changkyun laughs, shakes his head as Kihyun rolls his eyes. He takes a sip of his tea then, sighing.

“Do you want me to do some digging?”

Kihyun seems to think it over, before shaking his head.

“I’d rather not. If the person who did this is looking for him, we risk pointing them in the right direction. I don’t mind him here. I just wish he’d trust me enough to come out, you know. Then I could maybe actually help.”

“I think you already did. Not everyone would take on a shapeshifter.”

“Why, though? They did nothing wrong.”

“Just like why everybody dislikes you and your creepy plants and the shadows sticking to your feet.”

“No ones tries to kill me, though.”

“Yeah, no one dares, you’d kill them first.”

Kihyun laughs, because it’s true, he supposes that he would. He shakes his head again, more out of exhaustion with the world than anything else, and goes up to dump his tea in the sink, narrowly avoiding to drown the small pistia resting there. He bows his head in apology before rinsing the mug and putting it up to dry, and he stares out the window for the span of a heartbeat before turning to Changkyun again.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speak of him to anyone.”

“I wasn’t going to. He’s your secret, and that’s fine.”

“Thank you.”

“You might want to tell him, though. That you know.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

 

**7.**

The man in the house has a habit of falling asleep on the couch of the small library. Yoongi watches him from his perch on the armchair, and a strange yearning starts making its home in the empty space below his heart. He wants to feel it again, the strong heartbeat, the warm skin, and the smell, of the forest after the rain. It takes him weeks, to gather up the courage to pad towards the sunken couch, and at first he just stays there, between a pot of blooming foxglove and a single white carnation.

He doesn’t notice it, at first, how the plants shift and bend to accommodate his feline form, or how the ones hanging from the ceiling will brush soft tendrils against the man’s hair once he’s sound asleep. How there’s shadows in the corner that don’t move with the light. But then he understands, and it’s obvious to him, that the man knows the truth. And yet, he did nothing, asked nothing. He simply let Yoongi exists, in his tiny library, sleeping away the fear and the hurt. And so Yoongi finally jumps on the couch, and it’s two more days until ever so slowly, he curls up on the man’s chest, closing his eyes on soft leaves brushing his fur, on shadows leaning over to offer shelter from the light.

Once, he wakes up after the man, who’s watching him through half-lowered eyelids, a slow smile curving his lips.

“Hello. It just occurred to me I never introduced myself. I’m Kihyun.”

Yoongi just blinks slowly at him, committing the information to memory.

“I wish I knew your name, but I don’t, so it will be Mr. Cat for now. I hope it is okay.”

Another slow blink, and the man’s smile – Kihyun’s smile – stretches further, until it breaks up over a yawn.

“You’re warm. It’s nice. You were so cold when I found you, I was a little scared you wouldn’t make it. But the marigold and the goldenseal, they know what they’re doing. They’re healing plants, you see, and those who live here with us are very old.”

The man shift, burrowing a little more comfortably against the sofa.

“Everything here is old, that’s why there’s so many shadows, too. You don’t have to be scared of them. They’re not evil.”

Yoongi wants to tell him that he knows, that they come to him in dreams, with soft murmurs and playful wisps, and they make him feel safe, in the waking hours, curling around him like a cloth sewn out of the night sky. He cannot, though, so instead he rubs his head against the man, and Kihyun laughs. He still doesn’t touch him, though, and Yoongi appreciate it as much as it scares him, because it is another proof that Kihyun knows. But his eyes remain kind, his hands stay gentle, and maybe it doesn’t matter, here, in this place full of things old and knowing.

 

**8.**

It happens more and more. Kihyun sits on the sunken couch with a book and a steaming mug of herbal tea, that he puts on a small gueridon he dragged next to the armrest. Yoongi joins him after staring from the armchair for shorter a time each instance, and Kihyun makes room for him in his lap as he starts reading aloud. The almost-cat closes his eyes but he doesn’t fall asleep, Kihyun knows, and so he keeps reading. The cat isn’t the only one to listen, the dainty may bells resting on the windowsill swaying to the rhythm of Kihyun’s voice while shadows dance against the walls, running over the spines of books they have yet to read.

Kihyun chooses tales with magic and demons, dark and frightful. He takes on simple stories, too, of love and loss and all in between. Sometimes it’s heavy treaties on botany, sometimes strange books without titles speaking of things found in forgotten places and dark corners. The almost-cat listens to everything, and sometimes soft noises escape him. Kihyun always answer, as if they were discussing the story; and maybe they are, lowered defenses that allow for tentative bonds to flourish.

And so, the almost-cat becomes part of Kihyun’s strange household.

 

**9.**

The shadows in Yoongi’s dreams grow warmer, these days, softer, too, cradling him like something precious. He wakes-up with colorful petals in his fur from plants he doesn’t know the name of, and there’s no more fear in his bones; no more pain, either. No more sorrow.

 

**10.**

Kihyun know something is not quite how it should be when the ivy guarding the door parts with almost an hesitation, tendrils snagging at Kihyun's clothes in a tender warning as he crosses the threshold of the library. The light is dim inside, much more so than usual; shadows left their corners to gather around the armchair where the almost-cat rests, protective and watchful. Soft murmurs escape their moving shapes as they press against each other, and Kihyun feels their uncertainty deep in his bones. He pads softly, bare feet on the faded carpet, and the shadows part for him with a sigh like a breeze. Kihyun understands, then, the concern, the protectiveness.

There's a boy resting on the armchair, dark hair fanning over pale skin and pouty lips parting on soft breaths. Kihyun stares, rooted in his spot, and he only moves when he feels the tentative tendril of the goldenseal curling around his ankle. So Kihyun draws nearer, and it seems that every shadow, every plant in the room is waiting, waiting for the boy to wake up. But Kihyun doesn't know how to break the silence, and it seems like his voice is lost, vines growing in his lungs. So he sits, amongst the blossoms of marigold and the shadows draping over him, and he waits, too, for the eyes to open.

It takes hours, maybe, or just a few seconds, time always flew differently in the tiny room. But the boy finally stirs, letting out a small sound as he stretches before opening his eyes. And when he does, there’s panic crossing his features as he realizes what happened.

“Hey, it’s okay. I kinda already knew.”

The boy stares, sitting too straight, fear creeping into his being from the dark recess of his mind. So Kihyun scoots back, and the shadows retreat with him.

“It’s okay, really. I won’t do anything to you.”

“I don’t.”

The boy’s voice is croaky from misuse, and he stops talking as soon as he hears himself. Kihyun waits him out, from his spot on the faded rug, and the boy stares at the marigold when he speaks again.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. It can be just like before. Except, maybe, don’t sit on my lap.”

This brings a smile on the boy’s face, small and short-lived, but it’s a nice once, Kihyun thinks, amidst the deep relief he feels flooding his being.

“My name, my name is Yoongi.”

“No more Mr. Cat, then. Sorry about that, by the way.”

Another furtive smile, the boy looking at him through his too-long fringe.

“It’s okay. It was alright.”

Kihyun beams then, warm and content, and the shadows pour out of him in a wave, dancing against the fading light of the late afternoon as the plants stirs against an unfelt breeze. Kihyun rises to his feet, padding away from the armchair.

“I will set you up with a proper bedroom. You can’t keep sleeping in the armchair.” A pause, and Kihyun turns back.

“Unless, you want to? Do you want to shift back?”

A head shake, a smile, and Kihyun leaves the room with a light heart beating against his ribs.

 

**11.**

It is true, that nothing has to change.

Kihyun keeps reading books on the sunken sofa, Yoongi keeps watching him from the armchair, until he pads softly to join him on the couch, as Kihyun switches to reading aloud. Kihyun doesn’t ask Yoongi any questions, doesn’t try to make him speak more than the few comments they share through the readings. He leaves him be, like he always did, and Yoongi grows more and more peaceful, during these quiet days slowly dipping into winter.

But Yoongi misses something, he discovers, misses the warmth and the smell and the heartbeat, but he doesn’t dare, he doesn’t dare until he does, tentatively sinking his weight against Kihyun’s side, one cold afternoon. Kihyun doesn’t say anything, just accommodates him and keeps on reading, a story of princes in faraway lands, of war, and loss. It happens then for the first time; Yoongi falling asleep to gentle fingers threading through his hair.

 

**12.**

Kihyun is in the kitchen when it starts. A ripple through the house, the little pistia in the sink shivering from a wind only they feel, and Kihyun lifts his head from the dry coriander leaves he's grounding when the earthen pots hanging from the ceiling suddenly knocks together. The light dims, too, shadows coming out of their retreats with worried sighs and concerned murmurs, curling around him like an armor he had yet to ask for. Kihyun doesn't have the time to stand before the door to the kitchen bangs open, and it's Changkyun, out of breath, panic clearly written on his features.

"Hyung, they're coming."

"What? Who's coming?"

"Hunters. For, for the shapeshifter, I think. Or you, or maybe both, I don't know, I saw something, and I thought, oh man, I thought I was too late."

Changkyun's head drops as he tries to calm his heaving chest, and Kihyun quietly watches him for a bit, before he scraps his chair back, setting his pestle neatly down beside the mortar full of coriander.

"They're coming for Yoongi?"

"I think so, yeah, he's one of the last."

Kihyun nods, once, and there's something glacial in his face when he finally moves. Shadows are tailing his feet, wisps tangling in his hair, and Changkyun recoils slightly when his friend passes him by. He knows of the darkness, lying dormant within the other. But he never saw it spill over, not like this, and some instinct within him is telling him to run. He doesn't.

"I will go up to Yoongi. When they come, you let them in."

"I, I what?"

"You let them in, Changkyun."

And Changkyun nods, watching Kihyun disappear up the stairs, the ghastly feeling in his guts growing with each retreating footsteps.

 

**13.**

Yoongi is curled up on the sunken sofa with a book when Kihyun enters, and he knows, immediately, that something is wrong. The shadows coiling around Kihyun's small frame rush to him as soon as the man enters, and a collective shiver cuts through the plants in the room.

"I need you to shift, and to hide, Yoongi."

"What? Why?"

"Don't ask why, just do it. You will hide, and you will close your eyes, and you will wait until I say it's fine to come out. Me, or Changkyun. No one else."

There's something thrumming in Kihyun's voice, something raw and powerful, something not entirely him. So Yoongi does as he asks, gets up from the couch with hurried gestures, and when he slithers under a bookshelf to hide, it's as a small black cat, huge green eyes staring at Kihyun from the sheltering darkness.

Kihyun doesn't look at him, eyes strained on the door. It's dark, in the room, almost cold, and Yoongi flinches when he hears voices, voices he doesn't know, and a rush of feet up the stairs. The little door to the library bangs open, three men piling inside, angry and snarling. But something slows them, a creeping fear, coming from some forgotten instinct, a remain of those times when man still dreaded the dark. They pad inside almost quietly, stealing worried glances at their surroundings until they finally spot Kihyun, standing alone in the middle of this sanctuary they dared invade. Kihyun, small and barefoot, a thin white shirt hanging from his bony shoulders.

"You're the witch, aren't you? Where is he? You creatures can't hide from us."

"We're not hiding."

There's a thousand voices in Kihyun's own, and Yoongi stares just as the men do, throat dry, his fur rising. He has never seen such cold fury, such anger, cutting through the air like a knife. That's when he feels it, the swirl of something dark, shadows pooling around Kihyun from every corner of the house, and from beyond, too, harsher shadows, cold as death, something almost evil that Kihyun pulls from forgotten places and deep chasms. Blackthorn creeps on the ground of the library, aconite blooming amongst its thorns. Soft tendrils of black cohosh swirl around Kihyun's bare feet as he takes a step forward, his body shielding Yoongi from the men that would do him harm. When Kihyun's lips part on a snarl, Yoongi finally closes his eyes, and the soft shadows of the library, the ones he knows so well as they inhabit his dreams, curl around him protectively, diming the light and the sounds and the fear.

When he opens his eyes again, he somehow shifted back, and Kihyun is sitting next to him, asleep. There's lavender blossoms in his hair, his bare feet resting in a nest of feverfews. Yoongi picks one, bringing the small flower to his face, and he stares until there's a shift against his side, until the other's warmth leaves him all at once.

"You're still here."

There's wonder in Kihyun's voice and Yoongi thinks that maybe he should have left, that maybe that's what people are supposed to do, when so much darkness is deployed before them. But Yoongi just smiles, reaches out to pick a lavender blossom from Kihyun's hair. The man stares at his hand as if he didn't know where the small plant had come from.

"What are they good for?"

Kihyun hesitates half a second before taking the small flower from Yoongi's hand, turning it around in his fingers, eyes lost.

"Love”, he says. “Peace, longevity and happiness. They can help you sleep, too."

"Only good things."

"Yes, only good things."

"What about those?"

Yoongi points to the feverfews. There's more of them now, tenderly curling around Kihyun's ankles like a white cloud, and he looks at them, a small smile tugging at his lips as he brushes their petals with a careful finger.

"They're for protection."

"Plants love you."

"Yes."

"And the shadows. What are they?"

Kihyun shrugs, curling a bit more on himself and Yoongi wonders if it's out of fear, or shame, or yet another feeling altogether.

"I don't know. They've just always been there. I'm not sure what they are. Do they scare you?"

"No", Yoongi says, and he's never been so sure of anything.

"They smell like you, like earth and rain and forests. They come to me in my dreams and they're warm and laughing. I followed them, once, and they brought me back to life. And they love you, too. You bring them comfort."

Kihyun nods, solemn, and he still doesn't look at Yoongi when he speaks.

"They come to my aid, always. They always felt gentle, familiar like old friends, but people hate it, hate them. Hate me, too. It took a long time, to find a place where I could just be. I'm not... I'm not about to let this be taken away."

Yoongi shifts, and it feels natural when he brings his body closer to Kihyun's own, when the other's warmth seeps back into his being.

"I love the shift. What I like better are birds and cats. One time I was a fox, and that was fine, too. It's like my mind expands as my body changes and I can understand all so much better. But it's bad luck, a dark gift for demons and witches and it can't be beaten out of you but it doesn't stop anyone from trying."

"You were running away, when I found you."

"Yes, I was running, but not fast enough, and I thought it was too late. But then your shadows found me, and you brought me here, and I lived."

"They love you, too."

"What?"

"The plants, and the shadows. They watch over you while you sleep. Earlier, too. They wanted to fight for you, too, to protect us, protect this, and that's why they came so readily."

"I didn't see what happened. I closed my eyes."

"You did well. We put poison in their blood and terror in their mind and we took them away, to a place from which there is no escape. It should be safe, now, for a while at least."

Yoongi nods, exhausted, suddenly, and he puts his head on Kihyun's shoulder. They stay like this for a while, as Yoongi watches the small feverfews make a nest around his own feet, too. Kihyun is the first to break the silence, just as Yoongi is about to fall asleep.

"I'm not about to let them take you away, either, you know. It's not only the shadows and the marigold, it's me, too, who has come to love you. If you want to stay, you can. I will not ask for anything in return."

There's something gold spilling in Yoongi's chest, warm and rippling through him like a wave. He stares at the blossoms at their feet, at the remnants of shadows still clinging to Kihyun's hair and clothes, at the whole room, too, the books he has yet to read and the plants he doesn’t know the names of. He knows, then.

"I don't think there is another place for me."

Kihyun smiles, and his hand finds Yoongi’s, cradling his fingers gently between his, plenty of room to break free. Yoongi doesn’t.

 

**14.**

They’re all sitting around the tiny kitchen table, Kihyun back to grounding his coriander leaves, Yoongi quietly watching steam rise from his mug. Changkyun is the first to speak, head pillowed on folded arms.

“What’s that for?”

“Coriander?”

“Yeah.”

“Health. Wards off evil, too.”

Changkyun hums softly under his breath, before words escape him again.

“Aren’t we supposed to be the evil here, though?”

“Not according to the coriander.”

A smile, both from Yoongi and Changkyun.

“Good to know, good to know. What about the ones in the sink?”

“The pistia? Nothing. I just think they’re neat. You don’t have to be useful to deserve a home.”

Changkyun nods wisely, mouth closing on a yawn. It’s Yoongi who breaks the silence next, a look of curiosity almost foreign on his face.

“What are you?”

Changkyun closes his eyes on his answer, nesting more comfortably on his own arms.

“Me? Boringly human. I just hang out with witches.”

“Oh.”

Kihyun waits, grounding the coriander to a fine power. When he’s sure Changkyun is asleep, he rests his pestle against the side of the bowl and turns to Yoongi.

“The shadows brought him back, too.”

“What?”

“He was mostly dead, once. And they decided to bring him back. He sleeps a lot, now, and he dreams. And in his dreams, he sees. That’s how he knew the hunters were coming, and he gave me a warning. The lavender I keep, it’s mostly for him. Sometimes he needs to sleep without seeing.”

Yoongi quietly considers the sleeping body next to him. Changkyun’s brows are furrowed, and Yoongi can see his eyes moving behind closed eyelids. There’s sounds, escaping him, half-formed words he cannot understand, but it sounds painful, worrying, and so Yoongi awkwardly raises a hand, and lets it sink in a mass of dark hair. Changkyun sighs, as Yoongi tentatively pats him, and he seems to settle, the frantic movement of his eyes slowing down, voice falling to a small murmur.

Kihyun smiles, taking up his pestle again, and for a while the only sounds to be heard are the soft crushing of dry leaves against a bowl and Changkyun’s quiet breathing.

And so, in Yoongi’s head, the stranger with dark hair becomes the dreamer.

 

**15.**

Sometimes, between the armchair and the couch, Yoongi shifts. He likes to curl up on Kihyun’s lap like this, smells and sounds so much sharper in his cat form. When Kihyun forgets himself a little bit, lost in the story he’s reading to the plants and the shadows and the skinwalker in his lap, he starts to pat Yoongi’s soft fur, scratching lightly behind the ears, and Yoongi likes it, the soft touches, the earthy smell, the strong heartbeat lulling him to sleep. He starts wondering, too, what it would be like, to be touched like this in his true form, warm fingers playing on his skin, not to hurt but to love, and it’s a relief that cats don’t blush.

Kihyun always falls asleep, too, and that’s when Yoongi changes back, staring at the man’s peaceful features with his human eyes, and sometimes he will burrow next to him, stealing warmth and company and the ghost of a breath fanning over his skin. When he’s feeling bold enough he will trace the gentle slope of a nose, the curve of a mouth, brush dark hair out of closed eyes with careful fingers. When Kihyun wakes up, Yoongi is always gone, curled up on the armchair or down in the kitchen, and Kihyun always wonders if the presence he felt was real or shadows in dreams.

 

**16.**

Because men do not learn, the hunters come back, just once.

They wait until Kihyun is gone, and it makes it worse, in a sense. Kihyun is a catalyst, after all, allowed some form of control upon the forces resting in the old house. But they wait for him to be gone, and they force their way into the house, up the stairs, straight to the little library where Yoongi is sleeping.

The library is Kihyun’s favorite room, and it became Yoongi, too. They left many loving fragments of themselves there, and the shadows in the house made it the center of their power, their resting place, as it contains all that they love. And so when the hunters sneak in, with dirty shoes where Kihyun’s bare feet tread carefully, when they use rough hands that bleed Yoongi’s soft skin, when they bring pain and fear in their temple, the shadows swallow the light.

There’s a yew tree, old and twisting, in the middle of the room. Or somewhere else entirely, gnarled branches where centuries hang drawing towards a sky of purple ink that never knew the sun. The tree paints shadows on the field of bones resting amongst its roots; brittle and old, smashed, bones both human and animal, some covered in a greyish moss, some grounded into dust. Yoongi rests amongst them, and strangely, he is not scared. There’s shadows slithering around him, and they share soft murmurs between themselves, tangling in his hair and cradling his wounds. They smell like rain and Yoongi remembers that he loves them, that he’s safe, there, amongst bones and death.

There’s a cry, from somewhere beyond the protective shadow of the tree, a cry of anguish like no other, of pain, too, and sorrow. Pity chews a hole in Yoongi’s stomach but he remembers then, the pain, the terror and all the loss, and he closes his eyes when the cry doesn’t subside. Soft shadows shelter him, voices singing in his ears in a language he doesn’t understand, and the moss grows around him, a bed he can sink into and forget.

 

**17.**

“Yoongi? Yoongi, wake up. Yoongi, please.”

When Yoongi opens his eyes again it’s on the worried face of the dreamer, and he’s laying in the middle of the library. When he looks it is empty, only him and Changkyun, still holding him, cradling his head in his lap and shaking his shoulders gently.

“Holy shit, Mr. Cat, you gotta stay alive.”

“I’m. I’m planning to.”

Changkyun laughs but there’s tears in his voice, and he hugs Yoongi impossibly tighter against him, relief pouring out of him in shuddery breaths.

“I saw something, but I wasn’t sure. When I rushed here the door was pried open, and I found you, alone and hurt, and asleep, and I thought you were dead.”

Yoongi feels as if he is waking from a long slumber, a century-long sleep amongst brittle bones under a purple sky.

“Hunters came. And then, I saw a tree.”

“A tree?”

“A very old tree, growing in a field of bones.”

“Oh. You saw the yew tree.”

Changkyun looks down at him, and then around, and there’s shy shadows peeking from the corners of the library, hiding behind old shelves and dusty books. Changkyun smiles at them, and they venture forth, gathering around the two men.

“I was there once, too, but the shadows didn’t want me to stay.”

“What is this place? Kihyun said, Kihyun said you were mostly dead, once.”

“Even entirely dead, I think. I don’t know what this place is. I think maybe this is where you go when you die. I still go there, in dreams, and the yew tree shows me things.”

“I wasn’t scared. It felt, it felt like here. Safe, and, and they sang, but I couldn’t understand.”

“It’s alright, no one ever does. I don’t think they mind.”

“I’m tired.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No.”

Changkyun helps him up, then, and they slowly move to the sofa. The foxgloves in their earthen pot stir and brush his ankles when he sits, and the lavender on the small gueridon strains towards him until he plucks a blossom and sticks it in his hair. It’s then that the door opens with a loud bang, and Yoongi barely has time to register the flurry of movements until he’s smothered against a chest smelling of rain and forests, a strong heartbeat, and the familiar warmth, seeping into his body. He brings his hands up, clutching at the fabric of Kihyun’s clothes, and Changkyun answers for him when Kihyun asks what happened.

“The hunters waited until you left. They came back, but then. Your shadows called the yew tree.”

There’s gentle hands in Yoongi’s hair, tilting his head back, and Kihyun is looking down at him, eyebrows raised.

“You met the tree?”

“Yes.”

“Was it, was it scary?”

“No. It protected me.”

Kihyun nods, once again hugging Yoongi to his chest, exchanging soft words with Changkyun. Yoongi falls asleep like this, smelling lavender and rain and something deeper, moss and bones and the yew tree somewhere, watching over them.

 

**18.**

Light and noise spilling on the last step of the stairs, Kihyun and the dreamer laughing, hunched over steaming mugs of tea amongst the clutter of the little kitchen. Yoongi stares as he used to, until Changkyun spots him and becomes him inside with a cheery smile.

“Feeling better?”

Kihyun stands up immediately, going to the stove, and it’s not long before Yoongi has his own steaming mug. It smells of lemon, honey and cinnamon.

“Love and protection”, Changkyun tells him with a wink before getting whacked over the head.

“Don’t you have anything to do?”

“You should have a little respect for your psychic.”

“You’re not psychic.”

“I wish though, at least I could monetize the weirdness.”

Kihyun laughs, burying his face in his mug, and they swap nonsense until light dims outside the window, and Changkyun has to disappear into the cold. Kihyun stuffs his pockets with eucalyptus before he does, sending him on his way with fussy words of care.

When it’s just the two of them in the kitchen, Yoongi remains silent until he finishes his tea, pushing the mug to the middle of the table under Kihyun’s stare. And then, he talks.

“The tree.”

“Mh?”

“Why did it choose us?”

Kihyun seems to think it over, pensively swirling the liquid in his mug.

“I don’t know. I try no to question elder beings too much. There were shadows following me for as long as I can remember. Maybe it has something to do with past lives. Yew stands for death, but for reincarnation, too. But maybe, maybe it just likes things that are lost.”

Yoongi nods, playing with the few dried leaves of coriander still resting on a cloth upon the table.

“I’m glad it did.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence, and –

“Kihyun?”

“Mh?”

“Will you read something to me?”

 

**19.**

They both curl up on the sofa, under a blanket Kihyun pulls from his room. It smells like him, and Yoongi burrows underneath, head resting on Kihyun’s shoulder, body folded against his side. Kihyun chooses a small book of poetry, and Yoongi closes his eyes, swaying softly to the rhythm of Kihyun’s voice. Shadows curl around them and it smells like lavender and cardamom, and Yoongi feels safe, something falling into place.

When Kihyun’s voice dips on the last word of the last page Yoongi opens his eyes and gazes upon the dimly lit room and its rows of dusty books, upon its faded rug where Kihyun likes to tread barefoot, on the armchair where he takes cat naps, when the sun shines enough to pleasantly warm his fur. He thinks of the yew tree, under its purple sky, of the bones resting there and the bed of moss he slept in, safe and loved. Of Kihyun, of the darkness dormant within him, of the something slightly evil at the tip of his fingers. He thinks of the warmth in his own chest, whenever he looks at the other, of the liquid gold in his veins, of rain and forests and his eyes opening after a little death.

He finds Kihyun’s hand underneath the blanket and threads their fingers together as the other sucks in a breath, and the dark eyes are full of wonders when Kihyun gazes back. And so Yoongi leans forward, and kisses the lips he traced so many times.  

 

**20.**

_Death comes to me again, a girl_  
_in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling._  
_It's not so terrible she tells me,_  
_not like you think, all darkness_  
_and silence. There are windchimes_  
_and the smell of lemons, some days_  
_it rains, but more often the air is dry_  
_and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase_  
_built from hair and bone and listen_  
_to the voices of the living. I like it,_  
_she says, shaking the dust from her hair,_  
_especially when they fight, and when they sing._

_-Dorianne Laux_

 

 

 

 

 


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